


Everything Twice

by sneaqui



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Masturbation, Sharing Clothes, breakfast cereal cameo, porn that turned sappy without my permission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: Queliot clothes-sharing smut.That's it. That's the fic.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 38
Kudos: 155
Collections: Quentin Coldwater's Birthday Smutfest 2020





	Everything Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Quentin Coldwater-Waugh's 28th birthday. Yeah, it's a couple days late, but he's too busy getting dicked down by his husband to care.
> 
> Unbeta-ed so all mistakes are my own.

Quentin had put on Eliot’s shirt that morning in the same only-half-paying-attention way he did a lot of things.

Eliot was away for a few days on an honestly really interesting-sounding mission where he and a bunch of other telekinetics were going to move someone’s house.

( _“Oh, cool. It’s like The Secret of NIMH.”_

_“Sure, dear.”_

_“Please tell me you at least know what I’m talking about.”_

_“Uh.”_

_“You’ve never seen The Secret of NIMH?”_ )

Quentin was getting dressed in his and Eliot’s shared closet, idly wondering if the bodega on the corner sold coffee filters, when his eyes caught on Eliot’s organized-by-color rack. He reached out to lift up the sleeve of one of his favorite button-downs--a dark green that brought out the same color in Eliot’s eyes. And then he slid it off of the hanger and put it on. Maybe out of boredom. Maybe curiosity. Maybe because Eliot wasn’t there and Quentin missed him. 

He imagined Eliot looking at him, seeing the collar of his too-big shirt falling away from Quentin’s neck, baring his throat, his clavicle.

He thought about what Eliot’s reaction might be if he were to wear it--and nothing else--around their apartment. Maybe he’d press himself against Quentin’s front, reach up under the shirt and wrap one of his big, gorgeous hands around Quentin’s cock, already hard and waiting for him. Or maybe Eliot would walk up behind him, place Quentin’s hands on the nearest flat surface and fall to his knees, his hands sliding up the back of Quentin’s thighs to spread him open--

Quentin ended up on his back in their bed, naked except for Eliot’s shirt, unbuttoned and open so he didn’t ruin it when he came all over his own chest.

After he cleaned himself up and showered, he put the shirt back on because, fuck it, he had nowhere else to be. He could make coffee and load the dishwasher and research spells and argue with people on Reddit while wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and Eliot’s shirt, wrapped happily in crisp cotton that smelled and felt like him.

Later that night he was sitting on the kitchen counter, eating Lucky Charms out of the box when he was struck again by the idea of Eliot walking in and seeing him like this: his shirt almost falling off Quentin’s shoulders, the hem laid out over the tops of his thighs.

Maybe Eliot would stand between his legs and (after gently removing the box of Lucky Charms from his hands), he’d lay Quentin back down on the counter, push his thighs up to his chest so he could get his mouth on--

When Eliot got home twenty minutes later, Quentin was in their bed, fucking himself with his fingers and fisting his cock, Eliot’s shirt open and framing his torso.

Quentin heard a thump and looked up to see Eliot, wearing his long overcoat and scarf, travel bag on the floor beneath his open hand. The look on his face was exactly what Quentin had imagined: lips parted and eyes wide open in shock, darkening as they tracked the expanse of Quentin’s body.

“Q,” he said, a single trembling syllable.

Just the sound of his voice made Quentin moan, his cock jumping against his belly as he reached out and breathed his name, “Eliot.”

-

Which is how they ended up here: Eliot sitting up against the headboard with Quentin in his lap. 

Quentin’s shins are pressed into the mattress and his hands grip the tops of Eliot’s thighs as he thrusts his hips forward and back, pulling off of Eliot’s cock and fucking himself back on it, slow and steady.

The coarse hair at the base of Eliot’s dick rubs against his balls and his perineum, making him shiver. His cock bobs between their stomachs, untouched yet throbbing hard and leaking from the way Eliot’s filling him.

Fuck, he could do this forever, or at least until his thigh muscles give out.

He has no idea how long they’ve been going at it. Thirty minutes? Maybe forty? Either way, Quentin is definitely getting the recommended daily amount of exercise for someone with clinical depression.

His therapist would be so proud.

Eliot’s shirt hangs off of Quentin’s shoulders, and Eliot stares up at him like he’s witnessing something sacred, mouth hanging open and letting out little wounded exhalations every time he enters Quentin to the hilt.

Eliot himself is half-dressed, his shirt thrown open but still on. His tie is untied but still threaded through his collar, the silk spilling down his broad shoulders. He did take the time to kick his shoes and socks off, but his pants and his briefs are still wrapped around his ankles. His feet are flat on the mattress and hips thrust up in helpless little ticks as Quentin rides his cock.

Quentin stares down at him, unable to look away. He can feel Eliot everywhere. The cotton of his shirt slides across Quentin’s skin with every shift of his shoulders. His hand is pressed to the small of Quentin’s back, guiding the movement of his hips. His big dick stretches Quentin wide, making him shiver as it rubs relentlessly against his prostate.

Eliot skims his palms up Quentin’s chest, his fingertips catching briefly on Quentin’s nipples, a there-and-gone touch that makes Quentin shudder. 

“This what you wanted, baby?” Eliot asks, voice so deep that Quentin can feel it rumble through his chest where it’s clenched between his thighs.

“Yes,” Quentin says, unashamed. Only in moments like these can he give himself over completely to the way Eliot looks at him, eyes dark and half-lidded with desire. He basks in Eliot’s gaze and allows himself, just for a moment, to feel beautiful.

Eliot hums, wraps one broad hand around the back of Quentin’s neck and the other around his hip bone, encouraging Quentin to move faster, to grind down harder on his cock.

“You think about me bending you over, pushing up this shirt so I could eat that pretty ass of yours?”

“Fuck yes,” Quentin moans, leaning forward and pressing his hands to Eliot’s chest, using the leverage to push his ass back onto Eliot’s cock.

Eliot’s breathing harder now, hips jerking up to meet every one of Quentin’s downward thrusts. “Keep you there, against the counter,” he says, hand gripping Quentin’s hip hard enough to bruise. “Keep your briefs around your thighs so you’re nice and tight when I slide my cock in.”

The hand wrapped around the back of Quentin’s neck tightens, and Eliot's thumb presses into that tender spot just behind Quentin’s jaw, below his ear.

“Oh, god, _Eliot_ ,” Quentin gasps.

Eliot growls and takes Quentin’s hands off of his chest, places them on the headboard so he can surge up and lick into Quentin’s mouth. He reaches up to wrap his hands around Quentin’s shoulders from behind, pulling him down onto his cock as they kiss.

Precome pulses out of Quentin’s dick as Eliot pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, again and again, nailing his prostate.

Quentin gasps, “Fuck, El, your shirt,” realizing that the front hem is curling forward, dangerously close to were Quentin is making a mess of Eliot’s stomach.

“I don’t fucking care,” Eliot growls into Quentin’s mouth, fucking up into him steady and relentless, shoulders slowly sliding down the mound of pillows he’s resting against with every thrust.

The way Eliot pounds into him desperately, hungrily, too far gone to care if his shirt gets ruined is so fucking hot that it fills Quentin’s ears with static. He almost doesn’t hear it when Eliot says, “I took yours too.”

“Wh--what?” Quentin asks.

“Your sweatshirt,” Eliot says. “Needed it. Needed you.” He presses a hand between Quentin’s shoulder blades and slides the other into his hair, holding tight as he fucks Quentin harder and faster, his abs clenching against Quentin’s cock. “I fucking missed you.”

“Missed you--missed you, El,” Quentin says, barely able to get it out between panting breaths. He’s on fire, an electric current running from his and Eliot lips where they brush together, down their chests and their stomachs to where their bodies are connected. Even the inside of Quentin’s thighs burn where they rub against Eliot’s skin.

“Thought about you,” Eliot gasps out. “Thought about you all the time, Q.”

“God, me too,” Quentin says.

“Q.” Eliot’s voice is trembling. “Please.”

Quentin’s going to lose his fucking mind. His whole body is shivering, throbbing. He’s going to come _hard_ on Eliot’s cock. He’s going to come without a hand on his dick if Eliot keeps talking like this.

He reaches down to cradle Eliot’s face in his palm. He barely has the wherewithal to kiss him, just wants every part of him as close as possible. Their lips brushing against each other just one more perfect point of contact.

“Anything,” he says. “Fuck, Eliot, anything.”

“Want this,” Eliot says into his mouth. “Want you, Q. Forever.”

Quentin glances up to see Eliot is already staring at him. His eyebrows are pressed together in a look of desperation, almost pain.

“Q,” Eliot gasps. “For the rest of my life. Please, baby.”

“El--”

“Want to spend the rest of my life with you. Again. Please, Quentin.”

If Quentin didn’t know better, he’d almost think that Eliot was--

“Eliot,” Quentin gasps, shocked when the muscles in his thighs lock up, his pelvis throbbing, aching as he comes untouched all over Eliot’s chest. “Yes. Eliot. _Yes_ ,” he chants, meaning it in every possible way. “God, _Eliot_. Yes.”

Eliot cries out, “Oh fuck,” looking as surprised as Quentin was by his orgasm. He clings to Quentin, his body jerking in violent shudders, gasping as he comes and comes and comes deep inside of him in hard, warm pulses.

They hold tightly to each other as they come down, breathing hard and shivering through the little jolts of pleasure that follow.

It takes all of Quentin’s strength not to fall off of Eliot’s lap right then, but he has to know. He presses his forehead to Eliot’s, rubs a gentling hand up and down his side, and asks, “Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, no hesitation. He presses a kiss to Quentin’s lips, nods, and says again, “Yes.”

Quentin exhales, smiling. “Good,” he says and pulls off of Eliot’s cock so he can collapse onto the mattress.

He rolls onto his back and looks up to see Eliot throwing an arm over his eyes, his teeth bared in an embarrassed grin. “Goddammit,” he says, chuckling. “I had a plan for how I was going to do that. And it didn’t involve me having my pants around my ankles.”

“Oh, yeah?” Quentin asks, snuggling up against his side. “What was it?”

“It’s not the same if I just tell you,” Eliot says, almost a whine. He slides an arm around Quentin’s shoulders to pull him close, finally cracking an eye open to look at him. “But trust me it was very romantic.”

Quentin wants Eliot to have everything he wants, including whatever stupidly romantic proposal he has planned. One that will no-doubt make Quentin cry. 

“No reason we can’t get engaged a second time,” Quentin says. “We’ve done everything else twice.”

Eliot tilts his head down at him, his eyes soft. “Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For just--” Eliot smiles, all teeth and high cheekbones. Little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. “You make me so fucking happy, Q.”

Quentin smiles back, small and a little shy. He leans up to rub their noses together. “You too, El,” he says, and then he kisses him.

They’ll have to get cleaned up soon, but Quentin just wants to take an unhurried moment to be close to Eliot, to breathe him in.

And then he remembers something that Eliot said earlier. He pulls back from Eliot’s lips, says, “You didn’t get jizz on my hoodie, did you?”


End file.
